Confutatis
by daylighthour
Summary: Salieri explores his feelings toward Mozart more deeply in his confession to the priest, and realizes too late what he has done.


While most everyone passed the evening watching the stage, I spent the night looking at him, for I knew something was wrong. At the conclusion of the aria by the queen, his face was translucent white as the puffs of smoke exploding on the stage. He huffed an exhausted breath as the audience erupted in applause, applause that my hands did not add to, and slumped at the harpsichord. Even from my box at the highest balcony, the sheen of sweat on his forehead was impossible not to notice. This was the first evidence I'd had that my plan was working; my stomach twisted in knots.

Then, it happened.

He stepped away from the harpsichord and promptly collapsed, right in the middle of a song. Rather than the plink of the instrument, a hushed gasp from the crowd accompanied the bird man as he continued to trill on stage. I waited in my seat, peering over the balcony, waiting for Mozart to rise. But he continued to lie there, the bird man doing his best to steal glances off stage. One more second, I would give him. One more second and he'd get up, laughing that stupid giggle of his, excusing himself with mock embarrassment and carry on with his opera. But one second stretched to two, then three, and he did not stir. My throat tightened, my breathing becoming slightly choked, as I watched two men from the audience lift his limp body as though he were no more than a girl's doll, thrown to the floor. Had I killed him now? Too soon, the requiem wasn't finished! The image of blank parchment, lines ever unfilled, sparked me to action.

I ran from my seat, down the staircase that lead backstage. There he was, the great Mozart, unconscious among planks of wood and bits of set pieces. A group of actors had swarmed him, like vultures ogling at a kill. I shoved two aside.

In the dim light of the backstage, he looked like a corpse dug up, but his chest still moved. A bit of my worry subsided, but was replaced by a pulsing urgency. Left lying here with these vaudeville buffoons, if he weren't dead now he soon would be.

"Pick him up!" The actors stared at me, dumbfounded. "Pick him up!" I said again, louder, and one of the men from the audience obliged, slinging the great composer over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

I motioned for him to follow me out of the opera house to the door where all the coaches waited for the end of the show. The man threw Mozart inside the first available coach. I had thought of joining him, but the sight of the young man, sprawled and pale like the dead in the seat, quickly convinced me otherwise. I had almost shut the door to the coach when Mozart's eyes burst open, frantic.

"Is it over?" He demanded hoarsely.

"Yes, yes it's over," I told him quickly, knowing that any other answer would have stopped his heart right there in front of me. He looked as though he believed me, and he slumped back into the seat and closed his eyes again. I told the driver to go and quickly, the faster we got home the greater his reward would be. I hopped on the back of the carriage, on the open seat where paupers often snuck a ride free of charge, and we were off in a fury.

I shivered and drew my coat tighter around me. The night was frigid, and the soft falling of snowflakes was picking up speed. A part of me chided myself for not riding in the coach with Mozart, but his sick, chalky face entered my mind and made my cold station feel a tad more comfortable. I found myself worrying, if just for a moment, after his health for his own sake more than mine.

Upon arriving at Mozart's home, I bid the driver, with the jangle of a few more coins, to carry the sick man in as I lead the way. The driver didn't ask me how I knew the way, but my feet walked the same steps as they had, lead by Lorel, to spy upon Mozart's compositions. This was a memory and a knowledge I kept for myself, a prickle of guilt in my chest.

I opened the door to the bedroom. "Put him down," I said, watching as the driver unloaded the composer into a tangle of bedsheets. The driver, too nosy for his own good, stood at the bedside, staring at Mozart's unconscious form. His payment and a few harsh words chased him out.

I extinguished my lamp, lighting a few candles instead for a softer light, and found the two of us alone. I spoke earlier of my madness, the madness of a man torn in half, and this was the madness that seized me in that moment, stretching me apart in every direction. I realized, with a horrible pain in my heart, that if I were to kill him, this would be the perfect opportunity. I needed only to take one of his pillows, press it over his face, smother him, and everyone would believe he had died of illness. It was the opportunity I had waited for since I'd heard his operas, heard the voice of God mocking me with each and every note, and yet because the moment had come, I was paralyzed. Because as I said, it's one thing to dream of killing a man but quite another when it comes time to set your hands to motion.

My fingers grabbed for the pillows, but rather than smother him, I adjusted them under his head. I straightened, taking my candles once more and standing at the door to wait for Mozart to open his eyes again, feeling much like fainting myself.


End file.
